Berry’s pale hands ached from all the scrubbing of grimy plates, their fingers wrinkling like a old women’s from washing for so long.

Berry wiped their irritated hands onto their yellowing apron, grimacing softly at the sting of protest their hands did at the unintentionally rough action.

They glanced outside of the kitchen’s window, eyeing the darkening sky before their lips tugged down into a frown. They needed to get home before their mother worried herself sick, again.